"I didn't want to go to jail."
"Yet here you are," said Bean. "And your next prison is out in space."
"I can live like Prospero, refining my arts in solitude."
"Prospero had Ariel and Caliban," said Bean.
"Don't you understand?" said Volescu. "You're my Caliban. And all your little children—they're my Ariels. I've spread them over the earth. You'll never find them. Their mothers have been taught well. They'll mate, they'll reproduce before their giantism becomes obvious. Whether my virus works or not, your children are my virus."
"So that's what Achilles plotted?"
"Achilles?" Volescu laughed. "That bloody-handed little moron? I told him your babies were dead. That's all he wanted. Fool."
"So they're not dead."
"All alive. All implanted. By now, perhaps, some of them born, since those with your abilities will be born two months premature."
"You knew that and didn't tell us?"
"Why should I? The delivery was safe, wasn't it? The baby was mature enough to breathe and function on its own?"
"What else do you know?"
"I know that everything will work out. Julian, look at yourself, man! You escaped at the age of one. Which means that seventeen months after conception, you were able to survive without parents. I don't have even the tiniest worry about the health of your babies, and neither should you. They don't need you, because you didn't need anybody. Let them go. Let them replace the old species, bit by bit, over the generations to come."
"No," said Bean, "I love the old species. And I hate what you did to me."
"Without 'what I did to you,' all you'd be is Nikolai."
"My brother is a wonderful person. Kind. And very smart."
"Very smart, but not as smart as you. Would you really trade with him? Would you really like to be as dull-witted as he is, compared to you?"
Whereupon Bean left, having no answer to Volescu's last question.
ALLAHU AKBAR
From: Graff%pilgrimage@colmin.gov
To: Borommakot%pinto@IComeAnon.com
Forwarded and Posted by IcomeAnon
Encrypted using code ********
Decrypted using code ***********
Re: Investment Counselor
Your idea of converting the Fantasy Game software into an investment counselor is going surprisingly well. We haven't had time to do more than short-term testing, but so far it has outpicked all the experts. We are paying Ender's pension funds to it. As you suggested, we are making sure that all investments are under false identities; we are also making sure the software is hooked widely over the nets in endlessly self-varying forms. It will be effectively untraceable and unkillable unless someone is making a systematic international effort to wipe it out, which is unlikely to happen as long as no one suspects it's there.
Ender will have no need of this money on his colony, and he'll do a better job if he's not aware that it's there. The first time he enters the nets after his subjective twenty-first birthday, the software will reveal itself to him along with the extent of his investments. Given the amount of time in travel alone, Ender will come of age with a noticeable fortune. Considerably more, I might add, than even the most optimistic projections of the value of Hegemony bonds,
But Ender's finances are not an emergency, and your children are.
A different team is tweaking the database your Ferreira sent us so it yields us more useful information. It involves a lot of additional research, not by raw data-seeks, but by individual operators trawling various medical, voting, tax, real estate, moving company, transportation and other databases, some of them not legally available. Instead of getting thousands of positives, of which none is likely to be useful, we are now getting hundreds of positives of which some might actually go somewhere.
Sorry it takes time, but once we get a decent positive, we have to check it out, often with landside personnel. And for obvious reasons, we don't have many of those to work with.
Meanwhile, I suggest you keep in mind that our deal depends on your making Peter Hegemon in fact as well as name before you go. You asked me what my standard of success would be. You can go when: Peter has firm control over more than 50% of the world's population, or Peter has sufficient military force that he is assured of victory whether or not any potential opponent is led by Battle School graduates.
Therefore: Yes, Bean, we expect you to go to Rwanda. We are your best hope for your and your children's survival, and you are our best hope for assuring Peter will prevail and achieve unity and general peace. Your task begins with getting Peter that irresistible military force, and our task begins with finding your babies.
Like you, I hope both our tasks turn out to be achievable.
Alai had thought that once he took control of the complex in Damascus, he'd be free to rule as Caliph.
It didn't take long to learn otherwise.
All the men in his palace complex, including his bodyguards, obeyed him implicitly. But as soon as he tried to leave, even to ride around in Damascus, those he trusted most would begin to plead with him. "It's not safe," Ivan Lankowski would say. "When you got rid of the people controlling you here, it panicked their friends. And their friends include those who are commanding our armies everywhere."
"They followed my plan in the war," said Alai. "I thought they were loyal to the Caliph."
"They were loyal to victory," said Ivan. "Your plan was brilliant. And you... were in Ender's Jeesh. His closest friend. Of course they followed your plan."
"So they believed in me from Battle School, but not as Caliph."
"They believe in you as Caliph," said Ivan. "But more as the figurehead kind of Caliph who makes vague religious pronouncements and encouraging speeches, while you have wazirs and warlords to do all the nasty tedious work like making decisions and giving commands."
"How far does their control reach?" asked Alai.
"It's impossible to know," said Ivan. "Here in Damascus, your loyal servants have caught and eliminated several dozen agents. But I would not let you board an aircraft in Damascus—military or commercial."
"So if I can't trust Muslims, drive me over the Golan Heights into Israel, and let me fly on an Israeli jet."
"The same group that refuses to obey you in India is also saying that our accommodation with the Zionists was an offense against God."
"They want to start that nightmare all over again?"
"They long for the good old days."
"Yes, when Muslim armies were humiliated left and right, and the world feared Muslims because so many innocents were murdered in the name of God."
"You don't have to argue with me," said Ivan pleasantly.
"Well, Ivan," said Alai, "if I stay here, then someday my enemies will finish in India—either they'll win or they'll lose. Either way, they'll come here, made mad by victory or by defeat, it doesn't matter which. Either way, I'll be dead, don't you think?"
"Oh, definitely, sir. We do have to find a way to get you out of here."
"No plan?"
"All kinds of plans," said Ivan. "But they all involve saving your life. Not saving the Caliphate."
"If I run away, then the Caliphate is lost."
"And if you stay, then the Caliphate is yours until the day you die."
Alai laughed. "Well, Ivan, you've analyzed it well. So I have no choice. I have to go to my enemies and destroy them."
"I suggest you use a magic carpet," said Ivan, "as the most reliable form of transportation."
"You think only a genie could get me to India to face General Rajam?"
"Alive, yes."
"Then I must contact my genie," said Alai.
"Is this a good time?" asked Ivan. "With the madwoman's latest vid all over the nets and the media, Rajam is going to be a crazy man."
"That's the best time," said Alai. "By the way, Ivan, can you tell me why Rajam's nickname is 'Andariyy'?"
"Would it help if I told you that he chose the nickname 'thick rope' himself?"
"Ah. So it doesn't refer to his tenacity or strength."
"He would say it does. Or at least the tenacity of a particular part of his body."
"And yet... rope is limp."
"Thick rope isn't."
"Thick rope is as limp as any other," said Alai, "unless it's very short."
Ivan laughed. "I'll make sure to repeat this joke at Rajam's funeral."
"Just don't repeat it at mine."
"I will not be at your funeral," said Ivan, "unless it's a mass grave."
Alai went to his computer and began to compose a few emails. Within a half hour of sending them, he received a telephone call from Felix Starman of Rwanda.
"I'm sorry to tell you," said Felix, "that I cannot allow Muslim teachers into Rwanda."
"Fortunately," said Alai, "that isn't why I called."
"Excellent," said Felix.
"I am calling in the interest of world peace. And I understand you have already made your decision about who is the best hope of humankind for achieving that goal—no, say no names."
"Since I have no idea what you're talking about—"
"Excellent," said Alai. "A good Muslim always assumes that unbelievers have no idea." They both laughed. "All I ask is that you let it be known that there is a man crossing the Rub' al Khali on foot because his camel won't let him mount and ride."
"And you wish someone to help this poor wanderer?"
"God watches over all his creatures, but the Caliph cannot always reach out a hand to do God's will."
"I hope this poor unfortunate will be helped as soon as possible," said Felix.
"Let it be soon. I am ready at any time to hear good news of him."
They said their good-byes, and Alai got up and went in search of Ivan.
"Pack," he said.
Ivan raised his eyebrows. "What will you need?"
"Clean underwear. My most flamboyantly Caliph-like costume. Three men who will kill at my command and will not turn their weapons on me. And a loyal man with a video camera with a fully charged battery and plenty of film."
"Should the vidman be one of the loyal soldiers? Or a separate person?"
"Let all the loyal soldiers be part of the video crew."
"And shall I be one of these three?"
"That is for you to decide," said Alai. "If I fail, the men who are with me will surely die."
"Better to die quickly before the face of God's servant than slowly at the hands of God's enemies," said Ivan.
"My favorite Russian," said Alai.
"I'm a Kazakh Turk," Ivan reminded him.
"God was good to send you to me."
"And good when he gave you to all of the faithful."
"Will you say so when I have done all that I mean to do?"
"Always," said Ivan. "Always I am your faithful servant."
"You are a servant only to God," said Alai. "To me, you are a friend."
An hour later, Alai received an email that he knew was from Petra, despite the innocent signature. It was a request that he pray for a child that was undergoing an operation at the largest hospital in Beirut at seven o'clock the next morning. "We will begin our own prayers at five in the morning," said the letter, "so that dawn will find us praying."
Alai merely answered, "I will pray for your nephew, and for all those who love him, that he may live. Let it be as God wills, and we will rejoice in his wisdom."
So he would have to go to Beirut. Well, the drive was easy enough, the problem was doing it without alarming anyone that his enemies had set to spy on him.
When he left the palace complex, it was in a garbage truck. Ivan had protested, but Alai told him, "A Caliph who is afraid to be filthied on God's errand is unworthy to rule." He was sure this would be written down and, if he lived, would be included in a book of the wisdom of Caliph Alai. A book he hoped would be long and worth reading, instead of brief and embarrassing.
Dressed as a pious old woman, Alai rode in the back seat of a little old sedan driven by a soldier in civilian clothes and a false beard much longer than his real one. If he lost, if he was killed, then the fact that he dressed this way would be taken as proof that he was never worthy to be Caliph. But if he won, it would be part of the legend of his cleverness.
The old woman accepted a wheelchair to take her into the hospital, pushed by the bearded man who had driven her to Beirut.
On the roof, three men with ordinary, scuffed suitcases were waiting. It was ten minutes to five.
If someone in the hospital had noticed the disappearance of the old woman, or looked for the wheelchair, or wondered about the three men who had arrived separately, each carrying clothing for a family member to wear home, then word might already have gone out to Alai's enemies. If someone came to investigate, and they had to kill him, it would be as good as setting off an alarm by Rajam's own bed.
Three minutes before five, two young doctors, a man and a woman, came onto the roof, ostensibly to smoke. But soon they withdrew out of the sight of the men waiting with their suitcases.
Ivan looked at Alai questioningly. Alai shook his head. "They are here to kiss," he said. "They are afraid of us reporting them, that's all."
Ivan, being careful, got up and walked to where he could see them. He came back and sat down. "More than kissing," he whispered.
"They should not do that if they aren't married," said Alai. "Why do people always think that the only two choices are either to follow the harshest shari'ah or else discard all the laws of God?"
"You have never been in love," said Ivan.
"You think not?" said Alai. "Just because I can't meet any women does not mean I haven't loved."
"With your mind," said Ivan, "but I happen to know that with your body you have been pure."
"Of course I'm pure," said Alai. "I'm not married."
A medical chopper approached. It was exactly five o'clock. When it came close enough, Alai could see that it was from an Israeli hospital.
"Do Israeli doctors send patients to Beirut?" asked Alai.
"Lebanese doctors send patients to Israel," said Ivan.
"So must we expect that our friends will wait until this chopper leaves? Or are these our friends?"
"You have hidden in garbage and dressed as a woman," said Ivan. "What is riding in a Zionist helicopter compared to that?"
The chopper landed. The door opened. Nobody got out.
Alai picked up the suitcase that he knew was his because it was light—filled only with clothes instead of weaponry—and walked boldly to the door.
"Am I the passenger you came for?"
The pilot nodded.
Alai turned to look back toward where the couple had gone to kiss. He saw a flurry of motion. They had seen. They would speak of it.
He turned back to the pilot. "Can this chopper carry all five of us?"
"Easily," said the pilot.
"What about seven?"
The pilot shrugged. "We fly lower, slower. But we often do."
Alai turned to Ivan. "Please invite our young lovers to come with us." Then Alai climbed into the helicopter. In moments, he had the women's clothing off. Underneath, he was wearing a simple western business suit.
In moments, a pair of terrified doctors climbed into the helicopter at gunpoint, in various stages of deshabille. Apparently they had been warned to maintain absolute silence, because when they saw Alai and recognized him, the man went white and the woman began to weep while trying to refasten her clothing.
Alai came and knelt in front of her. "Daughter of God," he said, "I am not concerned about your immodesty. I am concerned that the man you offered your nakedness to is not your husband."
"We will be married," she said.
"Then when that happy day comes," said Alai, "your nakedness will bless your husband, and his nakedness will belong to you. Until then, I have this clothing for you." He handed her the costume he had worn. "I do not ask that you dress like this all the time. But today, when God has seen how your heart intended to sin, perhaps you might cover yourself in humility."
"Can she wait to dress until we're in the air?" asked the pilot.
"Of course," said Alai.
"Everybody strap down," said the pilot.
There weren't enough seats along the sides; the center was meant to hold a gurney. But Alai's driver grinned and insisted on standing. "I've ridden choppers into battle. If I can't keep my feet in a medical chopper, I deserve some bruises."
The chopper tilted as it rose into the air, but soon it found a workable equilibrium, and the woman unstrapped and awkwardly dressed herself. All the men looked away, except her companion, who helped her.
Meanwhile, Alai and the pilot conversed, making no attempt to lower their voices.
"I don't want these two with us for the main enterprise," said Alai. "But I don't want to kill them either. They need time to find their way back to God."
"They can be held in Haifa," said the pilot. "Or I can have them taken on to Malta, if that would suit you better."
"Haifa will do."
It wasn't a long journey, even flying low and slow. By the time they arrived, the doctors were quiet and looked penitent, holding hands and trying not to look at Alai too much. They landed on the roof of a hospital in Haifa, and the pilot turned off the engine and got out to converse for a moment with a man dressed like a doctor. Then he opened the door. "I have to lift off again," he said, "to make room for your transportation. So you need to come out now. Except those two."
The doctors looked at each other, frightened.
"They'll be safe?" asked Alai.
"Better if they don't see your transportation come and go," said the pilot. "It will soon be dawn and there's a little light. But they'll be safe."
Alai touched them both as he left the chopper.
He and his men watched as the medical chopper lifted off. Instantly, another chopper arrived, but this time a long-range battlejet, large enough to carry many soldiers into battle, and armed heavily enough to get them past a lot of obstacles.
The door opened, and Peter Wiggin stepped out.
Alai walked up to him. "Salaam," he said.
"And in you, too, let there be peace," said Peter.
"You look more like Ender than the public photographs show."
"I have them retouched by computer to make me look older and smarter," said Peter.
Alai grinned. "It was nice of you to give us a ride."
"When Felix told me the sad story of that lonely pedestrian in the Empty Quarter, I couldn't pass up the chance to help."
"I thought it would be Bean," said Alai.
"It's a whole bunch of men trained by Bean," said Peter. "But Bean himself is on another errand. In Rwanda, as it happens."
"So that's happening now?" asked Alai.
"Oh, no," said Peter. "We won't make a move until we see how your little adventure turns out."
"Then let's go," said Alai.
Peter invited Alai to take precedence, but then he himself entered before any of Alai's soldiers. Ivan made as if to protest, but Alai gestured for him to relax. Alai had already bet everything on Peter's being cooperative and trustworthy. Now was not the time to worry about assassination or kidnapping. Even though there were twenty Hegemony soldiers already inside, as well as a sizable amount of equipment. Alai recognized the Thai-looking commander as someone he knew from Battle School. Had to be Suriyawong. Alai nodded to him. Suriyawong nodded back.
Once they were under way and on jet power—this time without any embarrassed woman having to be officially rebuked and forgiven and dressed—Peter indicated the men who were with him.
"I assumed," said Peter, "that the lone hitchhiker our mutual friend told me about didn't need a large escort."
"Only enough to get me to where a certain thick rope is coiled like a snake."
Peter nodded. "I have friends currently trying to find his exact location."
Alai smiled. "I assume it's far from the front."
"If he's in Hyderabad," said Peter, "then he will be under extremely heavy guard. But if he's across the border in Pakistan, security will not be unusually heavy."
"Either way," said Alai, "I will not have your men exposed to danger."
"Or observed," said Peter. "It wouldn't do for too many people to know you were brought to real power with the help of the Hegemon."
"You do seem to be at hand whenever I make a play for power."
"This is the last time, if you win," said Peter.
"This is the last time either way," said Alai, then grinned. "Either the soldiers will follow me or they won't."
"They will," said Peter. "If they get the chance."
Alai indicated his small escort. "That's what my camera crew is here to ensure."
Ivan smiled and lifted his shirt enough to show that he was wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying grenades and clips and a machine pistol.
"Oh," said Peter. "I thought you had gained weight."
"We Battle School boys," said Alai, "we always have a plan."
"You're not going to fight your way in, then."
"We're going to walk in as if we expected to be obeyed," said Alai. "With cameras rolling. It's a simple plan. But it doesn't have to work for very long. That thick rope, it always did love a camera."
"A vain and brutal man, my sources say," said Peter. "And not stupid."
"We'll see," said Alai.
"I think you're going to succeed," said Peter.
"So do I."
"And when you do," said Peter, "I think you're going to do something about the things Virlomi has been complaining about."
"It's because of those things that I could not wait for a more opportune time. I must wash Islam clean of this bloody stain."
"I believe that with you as Caliph, the Free People of Earth can coexist with a united Islam," said Peter.
"I believe so as well," said Alai. "Though I can never say so."
"But what I want," said Peter, "is insurance that I can use in case you don't survive. Either today or at some future point, I want to make sure I don't have to face a Caliph I can't coexist with."
Peter handed Alai a couple of sheets of paper. It was a script. Alai began to read.
"If you die a natural death and pass on your throne to someone you have chosen, then I'll have no need of this," said Peter. "But if you were murdered or kidnapped or exiled or otherwise dethroned by force, then I want this."
"And what if you are killed or otherwise forcibly removed from office?" asked Alai. "What happens to this vid then, assuming I say these things for the camera?"
"Try to encourage your followers not to think that killing me would be good for Islam," said Peter, "and my soldiers and doctors will guard against any other possible causes of my untimely death."
"In other words, I just have to risk it," said Alai.
"Come now," said Peter, "the only way this vid will be useful is if you aren't around to repudiate it. And if I'm dead, it will have no value to my unworthy successor."
Alai nodded. "True enough."
He stood up, opened his suitcase, and dressed in the flamboyant costume of a Caliph as the Muslim people expected to see him. Meanwhile, Peter's vidman set up his equipment—and the backdrop, so it wouldn't be obvious it was taped on a battlecraft, surrounded by soldiers.
At the gate of the heavily guarded military complex at Hyderabad— once the headquarters of the Indian military, then of the Chinese occupiers, and now of the Pakistani "liberators"—three motorcycles pulled up, two of them carrying two men each, and the third a single rider with a satchel on the seat behind him.
They stopped well back from the gate, so no one would suppose it was an attempt at a suicide bombing. They all held up their hands so some trigger happy guard wouldn't take a shot at them while one of the men pulled a video camera out of the satchel and fitted a satellite feed to the top of it.
That got the attention of the guards, who immediately phoned for advice from someone in authority.
Only when the camera was ready did the man who had been alone on his cycle peel back the traveling coat that had covered him. The guards were almost blinded by the whiteness of his robes, and long before he had his kaffia-cloth and 'agal-rope in place on his head.
Even the guards who weren't close enough to recognize him by face guessed from the clothing and from the fact that he was a young black man that their Caliph had come to see them. None of the common soldiers and few of the officers suspected that General Rajam would not be happy to have a visit from the Caliph. So they raised their voices in cheers—some of them in an ululation meant to suggest the cries of Arab warriors riding into battle, though all the soldiers here were Pakistani.
The camera rolled as Alai raised his arms to receive the adulation of his people.
He strode through the checkpoint unmolested.
Someone brought him a jeep, but he refused and kept walking. But the vidman and his crew got into the jeep and rode along beside and then ahead of the Caliph. While the Caliph's aide, Ivan Lankowski, dressed in civilian clothes like the vid crew, explained to the officers who trotted alongside him that the Caliph was here to bestow upon General Rajam the honors he had earned. He expected General Rajam and those men he wished to have share this honor greet the Caliph in the open square before all of the Caliph's soldiers.
This word quickly spread, and before long, Alai's progress was accompanied by thousands of uniformed soldiers, cheering and calling his name. They kept a path clear for the vid crew, and those who thought they might be within line of sight of the camera made an especially exuberant show of their love for the Caliph, in case someone from home was watching and might recognize them.
Alai was reasonably confident that whatever Rajam might be planning, he wouldn't do it in front of a live satellite feed, with thousands of soldiers looking on. Rajam would have had Alai die in a plane crash on the way, or be assassinated somewhere far from Rajam himself. Now that he was here, Rajam would play a waiting game, to see what Alai was up to, meanwhile looking for some innocent-seeming way for Alai to be gotten rid of—killed, or trundled back to Damascus and kept under closer guard.
As Alai expected, Rajam waited for him at the top of the imposing stairs leading up to the finest-looking building in the compound. But Alai walked up only a few steps and stopped, turning his back on Rajam and facing the soldiers... and the camera. The light was good here.
The vid crew took their places at the bottom of the steps.
Alai held up his arms for silence and waited. The shouting died down.
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